


The Ghosts are On Both Sides

by Anna__S



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-20
Updated: 2014-06-20
Packaged: 2018-02-05 10:35:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,800
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1815436
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anna__S/pseuds/Anna__S
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"They paid for their world, for their love, in blood, over and over, generation after generation. Maybe it was time to sacrifice something else.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Ghosts are On Both Sides

**Author's Note:**

> AU spinning off Post-OOTP. Originally written in 2004.

On the last day of their NEWT Transfiguration class, McGonagall asked them to write a definition of magic.

Harry stared at his blank parchment, wishing something would penetrate the fog of his brain. But he couldn’t remember ever reading anything like that, not in single one of his classes.

He scribbled down, “the stuff that comes out of your wand,” before glancing at Ron’s page. His answers were similarly vague, and mostly about the differences between muggles and wizards.

Harry snuck a look at Hermione’s paper, and was surprised to see that for the first time in the history of their friendship, she was finished before any of them. In her small, elegant handwriting, she’d written, “nobody knows”.

For the rest of the hour, Harry watched his classmates shuffling papers, chewing on the point of their quills, and attempting to look thoughtful, without making any progress.

“I won’t be collecting your papers,” McGonagall finally said and the class exhaled with relief. “But as you start to make your way into the world, it was something Professor Dumbledore and I thought you should consider.”

The pause after Dumbledore’s name was long enough to indicate that this was his idea, not hers.

Years later, when Harry remembered that moment, he didn’t know whether he was angry or relieved to realize that this had been part of the plan all along.

 

*

 

Dumbledore didn’t get a funeral. It would’ve been too obvious a target for Voldemort to resist.

The Order scattered his ashes in secret in the lake outside Hogwarts, as Dumbledore had requested. Harry imagined the fragments of flesh sinking, dissolving into the water. His head felt thick and swollen, like someone had wrapped it in cotton.

The only noise was Mrs. Weasley’s loud, gulping sobs. Hermione’s cheeks were damp and Ron’s eyes were unnaturally bright, but when Hermione tugged at his arm, directing him towards their favorite spot in the courtyard, she just seemed more tired than usual.

“We’re so doomed,” said Ron, kicking at the ground.

“No kidding,” said Harry.

“Look,” interrupted Hermione. “Before you two turn into Professor Trelawney, you should remember that it’s Harry in the prophecy, not Dumbledore. We just need a plan.”

“What it comes down to is that we’re fighting someone who can’t be killed. And all I can do is slow him down a little.”

“If we could lock him in a cage, but like a cage without magic, maybe,” said Ron.

Hermione shook her head. “It would never work. Even Dumbledore couldn’t have held Voldemort in anything for more than a second.” Her expression suddenly became very distant. “Unless.”

“Yeah?” Harry asked.

“Unless we cut off his ability to use magic.”

“Is that even possible?” asked Ron in a tone of completely disbelief.

“Maybe, maybe if we eliminated magic completely.” Hermione’s brow creased.

“Are you completely mad?” asked Harry while Ron seemed to have gone speechless at the very idea. “You can’t just get rid of magic, and even if you did, well, no way. There’s just no way.”

There was a surge of pain in his forehead. Harry fell to the ground, clawing at the dirt. He struggled to breath evenly, and remember what Dumbledore had said about blocking mental intrusions, but all he could feel was Voldemort’s presence, cold and probing.

Ron and Hermione grabbed his hand and helped him upright. Their skin anchored him, reminded him where he ended and Voldemort began.

“Voldemort?” asked Hermione.

He nodded, still shuddering. Voldemort was gone; what he’d seen, Harry didn’t know and there was no one left to ask.

 

*

 

It was hard to say exactly what qualified as a victory. Men and women on both sides died, and in the end, if you weren’t one of corpses lying on the ground, maybe that was close enough.

That day, Ernie and Tonks had joined Hagrid, Luna, and Dumbledore in the ranks of the dead. Both Ginny and Bill were in the overcrowded burn wards with first-degree burns across half of their bodies. Fred lost a leg to an especially nasty curse, and although he told his mother that they were lucky- now she’d finally be able to tell the twins apart- his face was white and pinched with pain.

And this is the world my parents died for, Harry thought bitterly.

He struggled to sleep in Hogwarts’ Great Hall. Hermione curled against his shoulder, stray strands of hair falling into his face, while Ron slumped against his other side. Despite their comforting warmth, he fell into nightmares that were half memory, half dream.

In the last one, he saw flashes of death eaters laughing and a familiar face glaring back as Voldemort’s wand glowed green with the killing curse. Neville’s scream echoed in Harry’s ears.

One down, little Potter. This one didn’t have much fight in him. I expect better things from your other friends.”

He didn’t need the messenger that arrived early that morning to tell him that Neville was dead at Voldemort’s hand. Another Longbottom lost to the cause. Neville, who could have, maybe should have, had his place in history.

Pain, Dumbledore told him once, makes you human. They paid for their world, for their love, in blood, over and over, generation after generation. Maybe it was time to sacrifice something else.

When Hermione woke up, he asked her to explain her plan again, slowly and in detail.

 

*

 

Harry’s hand shook with the effort of keeping the connection between his wand and Voldemort’s unbroken. The first ghost to come out of Voldemort’s wand was only vaguely familiar, but he gave Harry a wave and a wink and glided on.

The next ghost was Neville. “Get the bastard, Harry!” he said, grinning and clapping him on the back with a translucent hand.

He heard chants, and realized the Order was starting to circle them. Sweat dripped down his brow, blurring his vision. It felt like he was on a carousel spinning and spinning, unable to see more than a thin slice of the world around him. He thought he saw a glimpse of his father, standing at Lupin’s side, but he was drawn back to the light pulsing from his wand.

The chant reached a crescendo, and suddenly, the light exploding from their wands faded. His wand dropped to the ground. There was a hollowness in his chest, as if he’d exhaled and released something from himself. The lines of power he could sometimes sense, stretching away from him, wavered and then disappeared.

Ten feet away, Voldemort went completely still.

Ron and Snape broke the circle first, running forward to secure Voldemort with ropes. After a few false tries with complicated knots, they wound the rope around his body again and again and then held the ends.

Hermione had the foresight to bring a sharp knife, but it turned out that they didn’t need it.

After a few minutes, Voldemort’s skin started to pucker. His hands, still reaching towards Harry went limp, like old gloves. His body was caving in on itself, leaving nothing behind but a small pile of dust.

Harry knew exactly what Dumbledore would’ve done. He would’ve given them a speech, and with a few words, moved them into the future.

But all he could do was wish that he’d seen Dumbledore’s ghost.

 

*

 

The Grangers accepted their story without any questions. He supposed that the sudden disappearance of magic was no less strange for them than its appearance in their lives.

Once, Hermione’s mother wrapped her arms around Hermione, saying, “It’s so nice to have my daughter back. We’ve missed you so much.”

Hermione patted her mom’s arm before pulling away. But when she sat down next to Harry, she was frowning.

“I’m so tired of them acting like I’ve come back from the dead. It’s not like we’re any different.”

“Aren’t we?” asked Harry.

Ron looked up from the pile of muggle money he was counting and said, “At least you have a home to come back to.”

 

*

 

Over time, several kinds of wizards developed. There were the wizards who made no effort to fit in, who wore black robes even in the summer, and muttered ‘muggles’ contemptuously under their breath, the wizards who tried, but ended up mixing skirts and pants and pajamas together and burnt their walls every time they cooked, and the ones who slid effortlessly into muggle life.

On the block where the trio had moved in, most of them belonged to the second category. The neighbors didn’t say anything to their faces, but under their breath Harry could hear them muttering about cults and mental asylums.

The only person they seemed to like was Ron’s dad, who was no better at living without magic than the rest of them, but made up for that in his enthusiasm.

In his weekly rounds from wizard enclave to wizard enclave, Harry always left Lupin and the Weasleys until the very end, to try and end the day on a high-note.

Today, he found Mr. Weasley in his garage, attempting to build something made entirely of wires for one of his technician classes. He told Harry proudly that he’d only gotten electrocuted twice so far.

One of the wires buzzed and a small light went off. Mr. Weasley beamed.

“It’s amazing, isn’t it?”

“Sure, amazing,” echoed Harry. Mr. Weasley must’ve noticed the hollowness of his voice, because he added in a falsely cheerful tone that he’d go get Molly.

Harry stared at the light and said in a steady voice, ‘lumos’. He repeated it over and over, hearing the frustration in his voice. He raised his fist and brought it down on the mass of wires.

The light didn’t turn on.

He felt trapped, as if someone had secretly bound his hands. Before he’d been able to work his will on the world, to control what went on around him, but now he was just there.

He flung the contraption on the ground and stomped on it until it was in pieces. And then, before Mr. Weasley could come back, he fled.

 

*

 

In the past, he’d always known that history would be on his side. This time, he wasn’t so sure. The Boy Who Lived might become The Boy Who Made a Royal Mess of Things.

He’d passed Draco in the supermarket earlier that week, and he sneered loudly, “Look, it’s our savior, our hero Potter!”

It would’ve been a relief to know that some things, at least, didn’t change, but what was new was that now he wasn’t sure Malfoy was wrong.

 

*

 

Professor Lupin appeared to be sleeping, but when Harry crossed the room, he opened his eyes and smiled.

“Harry. What a pleasant surprise.”

His happiness wasn’t forced, but there was something painful about the way his face contorted into a smile. Lupin had always been pale, but now his skin was an unnatural sheen of gray.

“The medicines aren’t helping,” Harry said and it wasn’t a question.

“I’m afraid not – and before you blame Severus, I honestly believe he’s doing everything in his power.”

Harry’s fists clenched, and his chest tightened. “There has to be something we can do.”

“You’ve already done enough,” he said and seeing Harry’s expression become defensive, Lupin quickly added “that’s not a criticism, Harry. I’m genuinely grateful for what you’ve done. Tell me, what did it feel like when it happened to you?”

“It’s kinda of hard to describe. It’s like, somebody turned off the lights, but I never realized they were on before.” Harry stopped abruptly, remembering how he’d stared at his hands like a stranger. His head still felt lighter, quieter, although he didn’t know how much of that had been Voldemort and how much had been the magic.

“I felt incomplete,” he admitted.

“For me, it was precisely the opposite. True to form, the wolf didn’t leave without a fight, but when it was gone, I was wholly myself again.

“And anyway, it’s not like werewolves are known for their long life span. There’s a reason I never had to worry about retirement,” Lupin said with a wry grin.

“Actually, there’s one thing you could do. Severus told me that it was a full moon tonight, but my legs will not permit to walk outside. If you would help me out the door, I would be very grateful.”

“Of course,” Harry said, giving him an arm to lean on. For a few painful steps, that was enough, but then Remus collapsed against his side. Without asking permission, Harry lifted his wasted body up and carried him out the door. Lupin’s shirt fell away from his chest, exposing the sharp points of his ribs, covered only by a thin layer of skin, like a scab.

He laid him gently down on the soft grass outside. The moon shone brightly above them, basking the world in a silvery glow. It was the closest to magic he got these days.

Lupin looked up at the moon and exhaled softly. “It’s beautiful.”

Harry watched him stare at the sky until Lupin finally fell asleep, a small, peaceful smile on his face.

 

*

 

In his dreams, Harry was still a wizard. Power flowed from his hand into his wand, and objects swirled around him. He turned roses into blood and then back again.

He walked Hogwart’s halls, bumping into ghosts. There was Dumbledore, with a twinkle in his eyes, telling Harry that he’d never been more proud; Nearly Headless Nick, who asked him where everyone had gone; and finally Sirius, who smiled his wolfish smile and hugged him

Feeling the dream swirling away, Harry rested his head against Sirius’ shoulder, pressing his face into his cold, ghost skin.

 

*

 

Harry wandered home early the next morning, ignoring the strange looks directed at him. His shirt was rumpled and filthy, his hair was stuck up even more than usual, and he suspected that there were grass stains on his face.

He watched his friends from the doorway for a few minutes, as Ron tried to cook eggs and Hermione buried her nose in the newspaper.

“You know, if I didn’t know any better I’d think we were normal,” he said as he sat down, startling Ron into knocking over his cup of tea.

“Harry!” said Ron, patting awkwardly at the spill with his napkin. “We were starting to wonder if Lupin had turned into a werewolf after all.”

“Nope. He just needed some company.”

“That’s understandable,” said Hermione, finally emerging from the thick sheath of papers. The reporters had finally figured out the basics of computers, but a normal newspaper layout was still beyond their reach, so the Daily Cauldron was essentially just twenty or thirty sheets stapled together.

Ron peered over her shoulder. “Oh man. Brett Spiggles killed himself. That’s like the second Slytherin this month. Fred and George have money on Draco offing himself before the end of the year.”

“He’s too much of a coward for that,“ said Hermione scornfully. “That would mean actually picking sides – Ron, the eggs.”

He cursed and dashed back to the stove. But it was too late and the eggs were burnt. At least this time, Ron didn’t stick them in the icebox the way he sometimes did, stubbornly convinced that he could un-fry them.

Out of loyalty, Harry nibbled at them anyway, avoiding the blackest bits. To give his taste buds a break, he asked what everyone’s plans for the day were.

“Help the twins clean up their store,” said Ron through a mouthful of food.

“Studying,” said Hermione, nodding at the tower of books in the living room. “What about you? Maybe you could give Fred and George a hand too.”

“Rounds,” said Harry simply. “And people are gonna be upset about Spiggle, so I probably won’t be back until dinnertime.”

More than cars or electricity or guns, the suicide rate was what scared the former wizarding community the most. In every dead wizard, they saw themselves.

He resisted from telling them that if the wizards weren’t so incompetent, the suicide rate would be even higher. Ironically, the same thing that drove them to death often saved their lives: they simply didn’t know what to do with themselves without magic.

 

*

 

It’d taken him weeks of research and poring over maps to figure out where the Forbidden Forest would’ve been. It turned out that the non-magical version began not so far from London.

He walked in slowly, jumping whenever a twig cracked, and then trying to shake the inevitable surge of disappointment when he realized it was just a squirrel.

Harry pulled a knife from his backpack and sliced open his palm, letting the blood run freely down his arm. From potions class he remembered how rich the smell of blood was, but now, he couldn’t smell it, he could barely even feel it.

And no thestrals appeared. There was not a single sign of a unicorn. The strangest thing he found all afternoon was a dull red cardinal feather.

He would’ve given anything for a sign of magic, even a quick flash of a Phoenix’s bright wings. At Hogwarts, there’d been the sense than anything could, and usually did happen. Birds could rise from the flames, whole and new, glass could become whole again, bones could un-break.

What they’d done had been the death of possibility. The air felt different; the world felt different. Everything was less alive. He'd gone completely still when Voldemort died, and he wasn't sure he'd moved since then.

Even though he didn’t sense anything, Harry couldn't shake the feeling that there was a whole other world that was going on right outside his reach. Maybe this time, if he turned fast enough he would catch it slipping away.

 

*

 

He misjudged when the sun would set and had to walk home in the dark.

The flat door was unlocked and he pushed it open quietly. There was no one in the front room, but he thought he saw Ron's head on the couch, where he often fell asleep, so he tip-toed into the living room.

Three steps later, he froze.

Ron was leaning over Hermione, one hand playing with her nipple, the other pushing her skirt up above her hips. Harry didn’t want to stare at Ron’s swollen lips, but he couldn’t block out Hermione’s soft moans.

He was surprised by how surprised he was. Everyone had seen this coming since first year. At times he’d suspected even they knew how inevitable it was.

Which didn’t change the fact that he was going cold with anger.

They glanced up and saw him standing there. Ron blushed, but Hermione just pulled the straps of her bra over her shoulders and looked at him evenly.

“Uh, sorry,” he said. “I’m gonna go.”

“Harry, don’t be a prat, wait up,” said Ron, as they both stood up and followed Harry into the kitchen.

“I’m sorry about that. We weren’t thinking,” said Hermione.

“You guys can do what you want. I’m not your keeper,” he said, biting his lip.

Harry tried not to look at either of them, but his eye was drawn to the soft curve of Hermione’s breasts, pressing against her bra. Ron’s freckled chest was more familiar, but it still felt like an invasion. He couldn’t breathe surrounded by that much skin.

“That’s not what I’m saying, Harry. But we discussed this and agreed it wouldn’t happen.”

“It felt weird, doing something with just the two of us. We don’t- we don’t want to do anything that leaves you out,” said Ron.

“I don’t need your pity,” said Harry, in as cruel a tone as he could manage.

Hermione exhaled sharply, looking frustrated. “No, you’re managing fine on that count all by yourself.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“You’ve been moping for months. This isn’t your personal tragedy. We all lost something. You don’t have to bear everyone’s burden or save their lives a second time. We’re not minions following you blindly, Harry. This was also our decision.”

“You don’t get it,” snapped Harry. “I made the choice to save you guys. To save my friends. I didn’t think about what it meant.”

“And now we’re alive. So you’re gonna have to forgive us for actually living our lives,” said Ron.

Harry shut his eyes and slumped into his chair. He wanted, he didn’t know what he wanted. He’d fallen away from the world, or maybe the world had fallen away from him. He was like a ghost on the wrong side of the divide.

“Harry,” said Hermione softly, squeezing his shoulder.

“I can’t feel things right anymore,” he said. His closed eyes itched with tears he wished he could shed.

Her thumb brushed his cheek, light as a whisper. Harry opened his eyes as she pressed her mouth against his. She kissed him like she did everything else, confidently and precisely, parting his lips with her tongue briefly.

She pulled away and when Harry reached for her, he found Ron instead, who gave him a longer, sloppier kiss, while Hermione watched them. Ron’s teeth clicked against his as he wrapped his long arms around Harry.

It wasn’t like anything he’d experienced before. His experiments with sex so far had been hurried and uncomfortable and foreign. But this was completely familiar.

Part of him wondered if he should protest, but maybe this was just the natural next step. Maybe it wasn’t only Hermione and Ron who’d been inevitable.

Hermione lightly smacked Ron’s shoulder. “Don’t be selfish, Ronald,” she said.

“Okay,” he said with a grin and immediately started kissing her. Harry was content to watch and drink them in. He was fascinated by the rising flush in Hermione’s cheeks, and the angles of Ron’s body. Leaning up, he placed a kiss in the hollow of Ron’s collarbone.

They both turned their attention back to him. Harry fell back into one of the kitchen’s wooden chairs. While Ron struggled with his zipper, muttering about muggle clothing, Hermione traced the line of his neck with her lips.

“Feel that?” she asked, her face half an inch away from his skin.

He nodded as waves of heat pulsed through him. Ron had managed to undo his jeans and he tugged them, along with his boxers to Harry’s knees. His dick, already half-hard, twitched.

Harry gripped the chair’s arm in anticipation of Ron's mouth, feeling the wood splinters slice into his skin, but Ron stood up, looking somewhat baffled.

“I just realized I don’t know what I’m doing,” he admitted. “It looks different from this angle.”

Harry felt a laugh bubbling out of him, and for once, it didn’t feel like a scream.

He kissed Ron fiercely, laughed again, and grabbed Hermione too, pulling them all together. Hermione’s next kiss, placed lightly against his cheek, was like a seal, reminding him that anything could happen.


End file.
